


Suits

by rainer76



Category: Fringe
Genre: F/M, Pegging, Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-13
Updated: 2012-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-29 10:55:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/rainer76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>There is absolutely nothing redeeming about this story - it's pure smut.  I can direct you toward some excellent writers who deliver both characterisation and perfect insight, but yeah, you won't find it here.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Suits

**Author's Note:**

> There is absolutely nothing redeeming about this story - it's pure smut. I can direct you toward some excellent writers who deliver both characterisation and perfect insight, but yeah, you won't find it here.

 

 

Olivia’s wearing a charcoal suit, head propped on one elbow, pen flicking idly in hand. She’s sitting a little further from the desk, legs spread wide, and it’s that which gives Lincoln pause. It’s not unladylike per se, but the posture’s in tune with AltLiv. In his experience, Olivia slants toward decorum more often than not.

Lincoln find himself staring, puzzled as to when night rolled into day, the hours between four and eight disappearing between one glance at the clock and the next, giving way to company and freshly brewed coffee. Olivia looks immaculate. Lincoln’s eyes drift down to those widely spaced thighs, sleek muscle, the crease in her pant-suit bunching in waves of dove grey. A trick of the light, maybe, but the bulge in the material seems prominent.

“How’s it going?” Astrid calls out.

He startles badly. A flush creeps up Lincoln’s neckline when he realises he was staring, rather unforgivably, at his partners crotch.

“Uncomfortable,” Olivia answers shortly. Neither of the two women has noticed him yet, in a lower, more exasperated tone Olivia adds. “This has to be one of the weirdest experiments I’ve agreed to.”

Alarmed, Lincoln takes a second look.

She doesn’t appear to be drugged, wired up to machinery or in danger of being electrocuted. The deprivation tank is sealed shut. There are no readouts humming, no EKGs in sight, the lab is suspiciously clean, devoid of Walter’s usual detritus. In fact, there’s no evidence at all of his latest ‘experiment’. Astrid huffs out a laugh, biting her lip in mirth.

“Why did you say yes in the first place?”

“When have I ever said no?” Olivia retorts evenly. Astrid takes a seat opposite, the rim of a cup held close to her lips, a barrier to hide her amusement. “It's no worse than eating worms. Walter said he was reproducing an experiment?”

“Tregess Psychological study, Cambridge, 1982. Tregess had fourteen volunteers to see if ‘behavioural patterns’ altered with the…um…

“Yeah,” Olivia interrupts brusquely and _squirms._ “Fourteen volunteers do not make a definitive study.”

“Well, most people thought Tregress was a chauvinistic crackpot to begin with.” Astrid turns the cup in her hand, the strain of keeping a straight face lost as she grins. “So, are you feeling any different? Have the need to beat your chest with both hands?”

There’s an easiness between them that Lincoln envies, the result of four years of strange and wonderful cases, of being comfortable with the outrageous.

Surviving Fringe, Lincoln realises, is about adaptability. Peter’s probably the king of it, noting the varied changes and accepting the differences as they appear. Lincoln feels as if he’s struggling, trying to rationalise a tilt in his world perspective, while coming to work every morning with his eyes glued shut and fatigue biting at his limbs. He will adapt, has to, Lincoln has no intention of being left behind.

He’s neatly trapped between trying to stay on the outer (there’s a job that Lincoln wants done, _that he will see done,_ maintaining aloofness from Olivia, Astrid, Walter, may be integral to those ends), and peering in at Olivia’s team with a hunger derived from loneliness. He misses Robert something fierce in those odd moments of alienation.

Olivia’s overtures toward coffee, ‘friendly’ chats, are wearing him down. It’s becoming harder to say no, to _want_ to say no. He’s not immune to Olivia’s charm, to the bright mind and steel-trap will residing within. He’s not immune to her smile, the way she purses her lips, the constellation of freckles on the bridge of her nose or how she talks with her hands. He’s not immune to the confidence Olivia radiates, the laugh warm as malted Scotch, or her thousand-yard stare. He has a competency kink, Lincoln’s come to realise, and there’s not a single person in fringe who’s not competent to the extreme.

Surreptitiously, Olivia adjusts herself, pulling at the material bunched between her thighs, lips parted as she regards Astrid. “Well, I’m not feeling the urge to chase you around the lab with a feather duster, so no, no differences.”

“Thank you…I think.”

Their conversation falls into the mundane, the case they’re currently working on, the evidence accumulated, and whatever behavioural experiment Walter was conducting is clearly dismissed.

Lincoln clears his throat and makes his way down the stairs, his smile lopsided, gaze keen. “Hey there.”

Olivia flushes, a slow sweep of colour moving past her collarbones. A flurry of expressions pass between Astrid and Olivia before she greets. “Lincoln. Have you been here for long?”

All night would be the appropriate answer but Lincoln spent the last fifteen minutes using the amenities and splashing cold water on his face, trying to straighten the winkles in his clothing. “Not long.” He doesn’t imagine the glimmer of relief in Olivia’s eyes. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Fine.” Olivia stands up, her gaze fixed at a point over his shoulder. “I just need to head to the bureau for a couple of hours, I’ll catch you later, okay?”

“Okay,” Lincoln agrees, the word drawled out to maximum length, and watches Olivia as she walks past him. Her swagger, he notes, is a little more pronounced.

When the door closes behind her he turns to Astrid. “Why do I feel like I just missed something?”

“Because you’re a wonderfully astute agent,” Astrid says sweetly, and refuses to divulge any further information no matter how Lincoln tries to ply her. Competent, he thinks with a touch of annoyance, and also, steadfast with their loyalty.

 

***

 

He doesn’t find the strap-on until their fifth date. Flummoxed, he stares at it. He was doing so well with his adaptability, too, he thinks a little faintly. “You wore this?” he asks.

“For twenty-four hours,” Olivia answers. She’s long and naked beside him, skin slick with sweat, her hair feral. She’s lying on her belly; head pillowed on her forearms and there’s nothing but amusement in her eyes. “Maybe Walter should have done his behavioural study on other people’s reactions instead.”

“You wore this,” he repeats, words stuck on a groove. His mind loops over the image of black straps, circling the base of Olivia’s buttocks, cinching around her waist, of silicone loose and heavy between her thighs. He feels hot, sticky, the whirl of the fan a background distraction, the gentle brush of displaced air a phantom caress. He can hear the soft whoosh of passing cars on the street below. His eyes feel wide. “You _kept_ it?”

“I wasn’t about to return it post handling.” Olivia trails a fingertip down his torso, nails catching his aureole, raking across pebbled flesh. She’s languid post orgasm, all of her coiled energy softened into playfulness. “I was the one who had to wear it. Why are you freaking out?”

“Strap-on,” he blurts, appropriately.

The dick is soft to touch, the size and weight substantial, life-like with ridges and a flared head. The straps are mesh, maybe an inch wide.  He trails one end over the dimple in the small of Olivia’s back, black against cream, a contrast that slows his breath.  “Did it make you feel any different?”

“No.” Olivia catches his hand. “I felt like me…albeit, with something weird down my pants.”

He snorts out a laugh and looks up, some of the weirdness ebbs away, the loop in his mind stems from fascination. Lincoln hooks an ankle over her calf and rolls toward her, confesses into the shell of her ear. “I’d like to see it.” He _had_ seen it, although Lincoln hadn’t realised what he was seeing at the time. Twenty-four hours and he hadn’t known. Her charcoal grey suit, her straight spine, the way Olivia stood at parade rest, her actions measured, controlled, the evidence hidden behind her clothing. “You haven’t worn it since, have you?”

Olivia turns her head, teeth visible as she bites her bottom lip. “No. Would you like me to wear it, Lincoln? Or _use_ it?”

He feels like he’s been sucker-punched, the air gone from the room.  The images in his mind turn over and change form; want creeps into his awareness, slow as molasses. Lincoln imagines the roll of his hips, the grind against her body is answer enough.

He helps, hands on her waist, drawing Olivia from her stomach to her knees, back bowed in a cat stretch before she glides upward. Olivia balances with one hand on his shoulder. The other tugs at the damp strands of his hair, sweeping across his nape, the slope of his neck, the tips of his ears. He feels drugged with the heat, with the low throb of arousal, adjusting the harness with sure tugs, letting his hand cup her bottom. She’s lithe against him.

Olivia’s more of a column than an hour-glass figure and the image, the silicone, the shape between her legs, the moulded straps against her body, should be incongruous. Should be…should be… He watches, breathless, as Olivia runs a hand down the strap-on, oiled slick leaving the silicone shiny in her wake.  She kisses him hard, breasts against his torso. The dick, angled, presses between Lincoln’s legs, dragging against his balls, slipping against his perineum. The room’s too hot, his cock too sensitive. When he falls onto the mattress, Olivia follows him down, palms flat against his chest, her smile Mona Lisa soft.

Lincoln’s not inexperienced. He knows how to relax, to breathe out against the pressure, to let himself adjust against each tiny shift. Olivia uses one hand on the strap-on to keep the angle true, then bears her weight forward and _presses_.

It slips inside.

The clock turns over. Outside, a car toots twice in quick succession, a neighbour saying hello to a pedestrian. He feels staked out, pitted open, shoulders pushing into the mattress, torso raised in half-bridge.  It’s been too long, he thinks, thoughts stuttering, and reminds himself to relax, to relax. Olivia kisses his jaw, her fingers gentling the furrows on his forehead, her words lost against the rush of blood in his ears. The minute-hand turns over.  The sensation, finally, plateaus.

“You’re okay,” Olivia whispers and he has the sense she’s been whispering it for a while.  He thinks, dazed, that he ought to feel embarrassed. It’s doubtful Olivia’s getting anything from the encounter, other than the pleasure of getting Lincoln off. “There you are.”

She strokes forward, fluid as water, flowing over his borders like a flood before she recedes. Olivia re-writes every neuron. His cock is a hard-line against his stomach, leaking messily, and Lincoln isn’t a one-act pony. “Come here,” he says urgently, when he can't stand to not touch her.

His fingers, shaking, find the straps. The buckle around her waist loosens, all of his dexterity seems to be lost with need.

Olivia stills, pelvis tipped forward, the strap-on buried deep inside his body. She lets the harness fall from her hips and swings around him easily, top to tail, straddling his waist in the sixty-nine position.  His hands are rough on her thighs, settling her cunt over his face, heady scent of silicone and something distinctly Olivia. He’s not going to last. It’s all he can do to hang on long enough to bring Olivia with him for the ride.

His whole frame shudders when she touches his slit; mouthing his cock like a lollypop. One of her hands draws the fake dick out then pushes it in, hitting his prostate with an exacting thrust.  Competent, he thinks, lit up from inside, bright with laughter. He’s not going to last as he tastes her - flavour bursting on his tongue. He spreads her wide with his fingers, exposes the nub of her clitoris and sucks.

The clock turns over and he quakes, soundless, body taut as he comes.

 


End file.
